


had to meet the devil just to know her name

by ashers_kiss



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: (just in case), (though it's all pretty vague), Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 02:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8352055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: This is not a love story.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deathcomestotime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathcomestotime/gifts).



> This is something a little different than how I normally write. Hopefully it works!
> 
> Biggest of thanks to S, again, for all her help (and giving me plotbunnies for another _two_ fics about five hours ago ;)), and to D for her last minute cheerleading on Twitter. ♥♥♥ to both amazing ladies, because this wouldn't exist without them.
> 
> [deathcomestotime](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deathcomestotime), I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title (adapted) from [Ghost](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=tA8AfQaUnXM) by Ella Henderson.

This is not a love story.

This is _noticing_ , at the worst possible time, eyes catching, lingering. This is the whisper of a voice in her head, warning not to underestimate. To look deeper, to _hunt_.

This is whether or not she listens.

This is backs ramrod straight, spines of steel and wills of iron, glinting in the pretty light. It’s masks in place and armour polished, battle lines drawn across a white tablecloth. Roses hang in the air, a breath away from cloying, and she refuses to find the curve of lips captivating.

This is sacrifice, even if it’s not hers.

This is not the end. It never will be.

It’s wariness, a refusal to trust. (Justified, perhaps. _Definitely._ ) It’s secrets and blank expressions, everything locked up tight against the rest of the world. (She doesn’t want to draw it out. She _doesn’t_.)

And it’s blood. It’s so much blood. There will always be blood.

*

It’s escape, the heart-thudding stop of realisation.

No, it’s _release_ , playing the crooked game by its own rules. Smirking in the slack faces of shock, not a hair out of place and an outfit designed for war, to make you check yourself for injury as she passes by.

(She doesn’t notice that. She _doesn’t_.)

It’s waiting, always some part of the mind razor-sharp and glinting in the dark, ready. Always ready.

*

Sometimes, there are letters. Not as many as there are for Sherlock, but where those ponder the nature of humanity, the morals, the psyche, these letters are intrigued by the _physicality_. The abilities of the human body, the limits. Questions being debated in the finest medical publications, queries and theories broached at the most prestigious of conferences by the most eminent of names. Findings derided, often in ways that echo private thoughts.

It’s infuriating.

(There’s one letter that remains undelivered, and later burned, watched carefully. The painting was a masterpiece, but that letter - oh, that letter is the magnum opus of work dedicated to that hard-won smile, those sharp eyes that never miss what people expect them to, the fire behind them. And yes, to those legs, because to deny them would be a _true_ crime.)

Sometimes roses are sent. Sometimes - rarely - they are well received.

There is one - _one_ \- phonecall. It does not go well.

“How did you get this number?”

“You underestimate me, Joanie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But Watson is so _formal_.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“So you don't want to know what I’ve found out about your missing boy?”

A pause. A curve of lips, half a world away. “What do you know?”

A tsk, hissing over the miles. “That’s not how the game is played, Joanie.”

There’s an almost imperceptible noise of frustration, leaving an extra snap in the voice. ”I don’t play games.”

“No…” A rustle, like a shrug. “Spoilsport.”

*

This is gathering information, quietly, on both sides. This is secret bookmarks and alerts to email addresses coded so meticulously, Bletchley would have had to give it some serious time. This is laptops closed carefully but deliberately, enough not to draw attention until it happens the fourth, fifth, twelfth time. Locations, carefully tracked if never noted down, and news from across the world analysed, picked apart for patterns, the barest hint of a trademark, a calling card. (That one’s at least easier to explain, even if it does lead to some...awkward company.) Victories read over again and again, actions and strategies critiqued - “But you never really welcomed my input, did you? Tell me, Joanie, why do you think they had you learn from _multiple_ teachers as a bright young med student?”

(That letter results in gritted teeth, and some especially intense treatment of the boxing dummy.)

This is, honestly, the modern equivalent of a wall covered in pictures and newspaper clippings. (And much more _elegant_.) It’s a warning sign, impossible to walk away from. (It’s _charming_.)

It’s a weakness, a needless distraction. It almost leads to a bullet through the brain of a trusted lieutenant, just for reaching for a tablet so recently, carelessly set down.

It’s keeping tabs, when finally discovered. It’s nothing of the sort.

*

There’s one letter sent in reply. It feels like a betrayal, even if nothing is said.

But rage burns in every word, scored with a surgeon’s precise hand, the helplessness of a healer unable to _fix_ this.

“You always want to talk about the science of it all, how we work, how we repair. And most of the time, I want to tell you it’s because we’re _human_.

Most of the time, I just throw them out.”

(That’s a lie.)

*

Another lie: there is another call, received on a cold rooftop that might as well be empty.

“It’s shit, isn’t it.” No question, just a flat fact. (It suited, before. Made for an easier getaway, Irene able to disappear as smoothly as she’d come into existence when he was so altered. But it had always pained, so see such gifts corroded. And now - now it is a _waste_.)

The only response is silence, the creak of plastic protesting too tight a grip. But the call continues.

*

This is a return, because of course it is. It always will be. And there is baiting, snapping and snarling and posturing on all sides of the law, and help where it is not wanted, where it’s needed.

There are looks, sidelong, lingering from under lashes, but this time, they are met with steady gazes, by quirked lips and something of a _dare_. There is a moment, an instant where hands almost, _almost_ brush, before pulling back, because how could it be anything other than a disaster? They retreat behind those old battle lines, the dare unanswered, unfulfilled.

This is nothing more than a walk, creeping back towards no man’s land.

It’s still a disaster.

There is a gun, and a shove, an explosion of noise that should be familiar by now. And there is so much blood.

There will always be blood.

This is hands against chest, slick with blood and rain and too fucking warm in the New York cold. This is _refusal_. Not now, please, not now.

This is not a love story. Love stories have happy endings.

 


End file.
